


Only Blame

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:36:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3835534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam's injured during a WWA show.  He recovers quickly.  Harry, not so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Blame

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for pinkkflamingo12 for the awesome [Lirry Fic Exchange](http://lirryficexchange.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> This fic deals with a very real response to an injury, with some PTSD elements, so if that triggers you please turn back.

Harry hasn't slept since the accident.

He can't, when he relives it every time he closes his eyes.

His hand, reaching out for Liam.

Liam's fingers brushing his, curling, grasping, slipping. 

***

"It was raining," Harry says, later, to The Sun and The Daily Mail and anyone else who'd listen. "He slipped," then, "I tried" _but it wasn't enough_.

Harry waves the reporters away against the images of Liam, lying on the stage, his eyes closed around a pool of blood.

"Head wounds bleed," the doctor promises. "It's just a few stitches." But Harry's mind skips on _head wound_ , scratching over it again and again and again until he can't think about anything else.

"Haz." Liam reaches over, wrapping his fingers around Harry's wrist, tries to joke. "My head hurts for you."

"Your head hurts-" Harry tries to joke back, but has to swallow around the lump in his throat. "Because you have a concussion."

Liam shrugs, then flinches, and admits, "yeah." His voice sounds small, a little hollow, not at all like Liam, but that might just be the ringing in Harry's ears.

He looks down, to where he's clutching the doctor's notes in his fist, so hard there are half-moon bruises in his palms. "I'll, ahh, let you rest."

"For an hour," Liam grumbles.

"Concussion protocol," Harry parrots the doctor. He doesn't trip so much over _concussion_ this time.

"Yeah, yeah." Liam rolls his eyes, smiles. 

"Okay, so I'll-" Harry motions to the door connecting their rooms. In his mind's eyes, he sees Liam reaching for him, slipping, falling- He flinches away from his own mind.

Liam squeezes Harry's wrist, pulling him back, asking, softly, quietly, "Stay?"

Harry has the sneaking suspicion that Liam is handling him, still, always, even when Liam's the one who needs minding. Harry's not big enough to turn him down. "Okay."

"Thanks," Liam says, as if Harry's the one doing _him_ a favor. Harry curls around Liam's back, holds him, catches his breath as Liam curls their fingers together.

Harry sets the alarm for an hour and watches him as he sleeps.

***

"Harry, Harry, Haz, come on, wake up mate."

It takes Harry a few long, tense moments to recognize Liam blinking tiredly at him in the faint glow of the bedside lamp. Liam's hair is a little wild and his eyes a little unfocused, and Harry's dream comes rushing back to him. 

Liam, lying on the stage, his limbs spread haphazardly, eyes closed and not opening.

"Li," Harry chokes out, reaching up to run his hand over Liam's head, feeling, gently, over the stitches. Liam winces, but doesn’t move away. "You woke up."

"Yeah." Liam nods, stretching out on Harry's side and resting his head on Harry's shoulder. "Yeah, I did."

Harry wraps his arm around Liam's shoulder and pulls him even closer as he struggles to catch his breath. "Sorry, nightmare."

"I'm right here. I'm okay."

"Yeah." Harry swallows, resting his chin on the good side of Liam's head. "I don't know what I would have done. If you weren't."

Liam presses a kiss to Harry's bare shoulder. 

***

The doctors clear Liam to perform a week after the accident.

"No." Harry frowns. Just- "No, it's too early."

"I'm fine, H." Liam rubs the back of his head, where his stitches are still raw and red and itchy. Harry's mind blanks on rain and blood and pale skin.

"Come on, Haz." Niall's hand is small and warm on Harry's shoulder, pulling him back, grounding him. "Wouldn't it be nice to have him back?"

The two shows they've done without him haven't exactly been stellar. Harry and Zayn have covered the lion's share of Liam's solos, but it's been ugly as they trip over each other. Harry struggles, too, with the higher of Liam's ad-libs, and his voice cracks around his own verses at the oddest times. Like when Liam doesn't fuck with him during What Makes You Beautiful or when Liam's empty mic is a gaping hole next to him during Through the Dark.

Harry swallows. "Yeah, of course it would." 

Louis claps his hands together. "Well, that settles it," as if Harry is the last arbiter on Liam's recovery. 

Harry's to blame for Liam's injury. He might as well be to blame for his recovery, too.

***

"You okay, Haz?" Liam asks, quietly, as Harry comes out of the bathroom.

Harry tousles his hair with his towel before dropping it on the floor of Liam's hotel room. He hasn't had the heart, yet, to go back to his own room. Not when he's still having nightmares, and is just selfish enough to need the assurance of reaching out for continual proof that Liam's here, alive, and mending.

"Should be asking you that," he says, trying for light and missing it by a mile.

"I'm fine," Liam insists, like he's been insisting for days.

Harry trusts Liam with everything but this. He trusts Liam with everything that matters to him – their music, the rest of the lads, Harry's own life – but he doesn't trust Liam to do what's right for himself. Liam cares too much, is too selfless, too empathetic. 

And if Liam cares for the rest of them, it falls to Harry to care for Liam.

He pulls on his briefs and sits on the bed next to Liam. "You sure?"

Liam nods, squeezing Harry's knee, his palm warm and soft on Harry's damp skin. "I'm fine, Haz. I want to get back out there." 

He has the good sense not to add, _besides, I'm not the one having nightmares_ , but it's there, between the lines. Harry doesn't bring it up.

Liam's fingers tighten around Harry's knee and does add, "I owe the fans."

Harry snorts.

"And," Liam continues slowly, the only hint that he's half as nervous about this as Harry is, "I need to prove to myself that I can do it."

Harry sighs. "Doesn’t have to be today, though."

"No better day than today."

"I'm throwing away that phrase-a-day calendar."

"Nah, you love that calendar."

Harry shrugs, but the door bangs open before he can say _not as much as I love you_. He should probably thank Niall for saving him from the embarrassment of that admission.

***

Harry finds Liam before the show, in Lou's dressing room with her hands deep in Liam's hair. 

Liam flips his mic in his lap, missing a little and having to reach for it, far enough that Lou tugs at his hair. "Liam, stay still."

Liam frowns, reaching up to feel gingerly at his stitches. "Fuck, ow."

Lou's face falls and Harry's stomach falls with it. He has to stand in the doorway for a long moment to make sure that he's not going to be sick again, like he used to be before X-Factor shows, when he was sixteen and didn't know better. He's stadiums and albums and relationships on from those days, though, and it's been years since he's been this nervous before a show. 

He swallows and takes a step forward, falling into the chair next to Liam's and trying to look less nervous than he is. "Don't hurt the cripple."

She reaches over to swat at Harry's shoulder with her bottle of hair gel. But Liam's laughing, and even as Harry faux rubs the hurt out of his shoulder, he can't think of any better sound in the world.

And what a cold, bitter place it would be if Harry never heard it again.

He glances over to see Lou starring at him, too shrewd, too gentle, and Harry doesn't bother moving as she taps Liam's shoulders. "All done."

"Thanks." Liam's still chuckling as he shoves his mic into the back of his jeans and hops up. His knees brush Harry's and he stills there, letting their bodies touch. "You coming, Haz?"

"Be there in a minute." Harry runs his hands through his hair. It's long, a little stringy around his ears, as he pushes it back. "Sure Lou wants to work some magic."

Lou snorts. "With that mop? Fat change."

She motions to Liam's vacated chair anyway, and he flops into it, twisting around Liam and waving him away. Lou waits until the door has closed before she's on him, running her brush harshly through his curls, eyes dark and bright in the mirror. Harry looks away. "What?"

"Nothin'." She hits a particularly bad snag and Harry frowns at the pull on his scalp. "Just, wanna tell me what has you so nervous?"

"'m not."

"Harry-"

"I'm not," Harry insists, too quickly, too forcefully. "Liam's the one you should be worrying about."

Her hand gentles in his hair. "Liam's gonna be fine."

"Yeah."

"I mean it, H. He's back to his old self."

"Yeah," Harry repeats. _This time_ , he doesn't add.

Lou catches his eyes in the mirror. "He doesn't blame you. You know that, yeah?"

Harry has to look away.

***

Harry needn't have worried.

Liam seems fine. More than fine, really, as he tackles his runs and ad-libs like he's out here to prove something. Most likely that his bum wrist and a head full of stitches can't keep him down, in bed, eating chicken soup and listening to something soothing – Ed, maybe – like he should be, like Harry wants him to be.

Liam's never been still though, and tonight's no different. He's buzzing with energy, muscles literally shaking with it, as he chases Louis across the stage, flirts with Zayn's hair, and bumps Harry's shoulders with exaggerated eyebrows when Harry trips over his solo in Rock Me.

It should be comforting, heartwarming, life-affirming; all those nice, sweet, calm words their band psychologist has been telling Harry about all week.

Harry, though, has never been more on edge.

He flinches every time Liam comes within a foot of the stage obstacles. He forces Liam to sit on the lower level of the ramp during Little Things, and misses his opening line in Strong because he's too busy watching Liam slip carefully down the ramp, unable to sing around the heart in his throat.

It's ridiculous. Harry's being ridiculous.

He can't help himself.

Liam bumps his shoulder as they run off before the encore, eyes bright and shining and full of life like they haven't been throughout his concussion. "Okay, Haz?"

"Yeah, yeah," Harry nods distractedly as he downs the bottle of water Lou shoves into his hand, and tries not to shake too hard. "Swell."

Harry's not very good at faking it, but Liam grins, ruffles his hair, and follows Niall back onto the stage. Like his head full of stitches is nothing. Like he's not worried it'll happen again. Like he doesn't even remember what it was like, lying there, bleeding out in front of eighty-thousand plus.

Harry's deep in his head, singing by rote, when the first firework goes off, illuminating the stage in oranges and pinks and smoke.

He crouches down, fingers in his ears, slamming his eyes closed against the image of Liam slipping.

Grasping at Harry's hand.

Falling.

Falling-

_Falling._

There's a warm hand on Harry's back, stretching between his shoulder blades. Warm and strong and alive. Liam's. A reminder that Liam's alive.

Harry focuses on it like a beacon, leading him up the ramp, through the smoke and the cheers and Zayn's last, long note. The note rings in Harry's ears, mixing with the loud bangs of the fireworks and the ragged, consistent gasps of Liam's breathing.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," Harry says, pushing Liam away the minute they get backstage and Harry's reasonably sure that his legs can hold him. 

Liam looks uncertain, like he wants to push and prod and pull Harry out of himself, by force of will and pure perseverance if nothing else. But, Harry doesn't want that, doesn't want Liam to see how dark and rotted and twisted Harry'd look, laid out backstage for Liam and Lou and Paul and their bandmates to see.

"Haz'll be fine. Doesn't like fireworks s'all," he hears Louis telling someone, explaining Harry's strange stage presence. A reporter, probably. "He's a private lad, but, he'll be good for tomorrow's show."

Harry grasps onto that idea. Grasps and holds on and uses it like armor when he stops outside of his hotel room door an hour or so later. He's flipping his plastic hotel key between his fingers, refusing to catch Liam's eyes. "I'm, ahh, just gonna stay here tonight."

"Oh." Liam frowns between his eyebrows. "Do you want me to-?"

"No, no," Harry says. Light. Easy. Fake. "Just want a little private time. Haven't had any, in a while."

Liam flinches, his frown deepening until he flinches.

Harry instinctively reaches out, wanting to smooth the skin between Liam's eyebrows, but not reaching quite far enough to do it. "Your head?"

"I'm fine." Too quickly, too casually. "I'll be fine after a good night's sleep."

"Yeah." Harry thinks, _me too_.

"Okay, well-" Liam rocks on his heels, starring at Harry until he finally gives a stupid little wave - too close to his body, too shaky - and heads off, down the hallway, to his own room.

Harry slips into his room, takes a long, hot shower, and is sick only once.

He misses Liam.

***

Harry's not so lucky the next show.

At the first flash of fireworks, his stomach churns, his mind races, and he doesn't make it to his room before his stomach is rolling. He barely even makes it backstage, shaking, pale fingers grasping at the first garbage can he can find. 

He doesn't know how much times passes with his head bent over the can, but his skin is clammy and sore by the time he feels a hand on his back. It's small and sweaty, and feels pale. He'd recognize Niall's hand anywhere.

He tries not to be disappointed.

Not even when they climb into the car to head back to the hotel, and Harry squeezes between Niall and Zayn. He keeps the door open, gaping, waiting for something – someone - and makes a strange, uncomfortable noise when Paul closes it from the outside.

Niall squeezes his knee. "Liam and Lou went back to the hotel a few minutes ago."

"Oh." Harry leans into Niall's hand and tries not to wish that it was bigger, stronger.

Niall walks Harry to his hotel room and pushes his way inside. He doesn't go more than three feet away, keeping up a steady stream of talk while Harry climbs into the shower. He fills him in on Greg and the baby, on the argument he had with Lou about hair gel, about the girl in the front row with a 'Kiss My Irish Ass' sign. And then - when even Niall runs out of things to say while Harry is slowly rinsing out his mouth of both bile and the images of Liam bleeding on the stage – he picks up Harry's guitar and starts playing him the Eagles back catalogue.

Harry lets himself sink into it, lets it distract him and fill him with music rather than this deep, rattling, clammy feeling of guilt and fear clawing at his insides. Niall lets his accent come out more, when he's singing alone, and Harry likes the reminder that it's not just music, that it's Niall's music and Niall is alive and safe and with him. Even if it isn't quite the reminder he needs.

He crawls under the covers, closes his eyes and lets Niall play for as long as he wants. He doesn't drift off, though, until Niall puts the guitar aside and slides down, curling around him.

Niall's music echoes around the walls. Harry still misses Liam.

***

They have a couple days off before their next show, and Harry tries to hide how happy he is to do radio interviews and Toyota promo rather than a gig. No fireworks. No lights and no loud noises. No stage, with Liam-shaped shadows outlined in blood red.

Harry enjoys the light, easy feeling through the first two days, feeling good enough, even, not to put up a fight when Louis pulls him aside after they're done with promo for the day and tells him to, "Take a nap, Haz. You're gonna need your strength tonight."

Harry snorts. "I don't need any help keeping up with you."

"Oh, I don't know." Louis raises an eyebrow, tilts his hip, with that dark, smoldering look that reminds Harry of blowjobs in the X-Factor house and quickies in Simon's office during live shows. "It's been awhile. I just might surprise you."

"Might," Harry shrugs, smoothly, even if he thinks that, yeah, Louis might just be able to surprise him these days.

The club is one of those international places, a mix of British and Latin American dance tracks and the bright strobe lights of Dutch disco. Harry closes his eyes against them, drinks a row of shots, and raises his hands high over his head, showing off a long, tan stretch of skin above his jeans.

He dances with Louis. Knees and elbows and mouths pressed together, Louis's hands tugging up and under Harry's shirt, slipping through the slick of his skin. Harry sighs into Louis's mouth, kisses him like he used to, as if four years doesn't stretch between who they were and who they are.

Louis's thigh slips between Harry's, riding up and up and up and Harry's dick is done thinking and is plenty happy to drown in Louis and alcohol and anything he can to forget.

Harry moans and Louis grins, pinching at the skin between Harry's shoulder blades, putting a little space between them. "I'm just gonna- drink."

"Yeah," Harry agrees, more relieved than disappointed, now that there's space enough for him to second guess.

He moves on before Louis can get back. He lets someone catch his eye, lets himself be intrigued by buzzed hair and strong arms, lets himself have it.

"Dan," the guy says, voice warm and tickling against Harry's ear.

Harry kisses him, shuts him up, covers over the reminder that Dan is just a feeble stand-in for what Harry really wants. Who Harry really wants.

Harry pushes it away. He pushes it all away and jumps into Dan, runs his hands over his body, presses close, closer, as close as he can. He kisses him, wildly, drunkenly, and ignores everything else until Dan leans down, presses his dick hard and long against Harry's thigh, and murmurs against his mouth. "We gonna do this or what?"

"Yeah," Harry agrees, "yeah."

Louis wolf whistles on their way out and Harry throws him the finger and focuses on pushing Dan into the car. He pulls Dan to him, trying to distract him from noticing Harry's security team. "Come on," he mutters, pushing into Dan's hands, straddling his thighs in the back of the car.

"Are you," Dan asks, his hands big and strong on Harry's ass, just like Harry wants them, "famous or something, man?"

"Or something," Harry agrees.

"What, like a prince?"

Harry laughs. "No, not a prince."

"I don't know," Dan flirts, finally giving up the gig. "With an ass like this."

Harry laughs, and pushes Dan out of the car in front of him. His knees wobble, his head swimming with too many tequila shots, and he laughs, too loud, too stupid, in Dan's ear as they take the elevator up to Harry's floor. Dan just takes it though, chuckling as he flicks open the top button of Harry's jeans, leaving him unraveled and loose and marked as his, if just for tonight.

Harry's still laughing when they tumble out of the elevator, pulling Dan in for a kiss as he digs around in his pockets for his key card. 

He almost doesn't hear the small, startled noise. Wouldn't, if he wasn't so attuned to Liam's every movement, every sign of pain.

"Ahh," he says, quietly, turning from fun to sloppy drunk in an instant as he pushes unsuccessfully at Dan's chest.

Liam's dressed in his boxer briefs and nothing else, his hair sleep-mussed and an ice bucket clutched to his chest. He looks from Harry to Dan to the v of skin between Harry's open jeans. He frowns, hurt and confused and surprised. Harry's stomach roils, like fireworks.

Dan looks from Liam to Harry, then steps forward, pulling at Harry's chin and kissing him, wet and sloppy and all-in. Liam's door buzzes, then clicks, and Harry pulls Dan closer, desperate, hot, needy.

He wraps his fingers in Dan's short hair to push away images of Liam's matching buzz cut, matted with blood.

He spreads his knees, making room for Dan, burying images of Liam's legs, bent and broken, in the strength of Dan's thighs.

He lets Dan have him, asks for forgiveness, gives Dan everything he'll take, because Liam deserves everything Harry can give. And if Liam won't take it, at least someone will.

***

Harry kicks Dan out long before dawn, then spends a good hour in the shower, washing away the imprints of Dan on his skin. He sleeps away the next half-a-day, hoping to erase his attempt to forget in the nest of quilts he buries around him.

He vaguely hears the door open, but he doesn't respond until sun streams into his eyes and he grunts, burying his face in his pillows.

"Up," Zayn says, and Harry would argue, but Zayn stopped taking his shit ages ago.

So, he grumbles and whines, but he steps into the sneakers and shorts Zayn hands him and follows him out of the hotel, pushing his sunglasses up his nose and wishing for a litre of water. "Where are we going?"

Zayn shrugs, leaning back and digging a water bottle out of the car's seat cushions. It's lukewarm and stale, but Harry could kiss him.

They stop outside an old-looking gym and Zayn grabs two more water bottles as he leads the way out. "Mark rented the place for the day, so, run until you need to stop."

Harry's stomach cramps just thinking about it. "I'm good."

Zayn shakes his head. "You're not. Haven't been, since Liam's injury."

Harry flinches, closing his eyes against the words and seeing the image behind his eyelids. Liam slipping, falling, reaching for Harry's hand-

Harry shivers, despite the warm, humid sun. His thighs ache and pull and he wants to run, wants to run until he can't run anymore.

He doesn't know how long he's at it, and he loses track of his laps after the first ten or so. He doesn't let himself stop, though, until his muscles feel like jelly and the sweat is pooling behind his knees and around his hairline. Even then, he pushes until he takes a miss-step, his foot landing awkwardly on weak ankles, and he stumbles, pulling up short.

Zayn's lounging on the grass in the center of the track, and he doesn't say anything when Harry strips off his shirt and drops to the ground next to him. He just hands over a bottle of water and, when Harry drains that, a joint.

Harry waits until he's mellow and exhausted before he says, quietly, into the open air. "It's my fault."

Zayn takes a long draw on the joint, leaning over to roll up his jeans. "You didn't trip him."

"No." Harry rolls his head, shading his eyes from the relentless sun, even though he's still wearing his sunglasses. "But I could have caught him, and I didn't."

Zayn shrugs. "Yeah."

Harry snorts, stretching out on the grass. His muscles feel like mush and the sun is painful on his bare chest. "Thanks, mate."

Zayn shrugs again, handing over the joint. "Liam's fine, H."

The next draw tips Harry over the edge and he grasps at the dirt as the world starts tipping. "He could have not been."

"Have you ever considered," Zayn asks, as he stretches out along Harry's side, "that's it's not what happened, but who it happened to?"

"What?" Harry snaps, angrier than he wants to be. His head feels full and heavy. "I'd care if any one of you got hurt."

"Yeah, but-" Zayn pauses. Harry's not sure for how long; time's pretty confusing right now. "It's not the same."

Harry should argue with that, but he can't. He closes his eyes.

"You should think about why," Zayn continues, but his voice sounds hollow, distant.

Harry doesn't need to think about it. He knows why, has known for as long as he can remember, even if he's been repressing it for just as long. 

"It's only hurting you," Zayn adds, sincerely, quietly, pushing the words through Harry's walls.

"I know." Harry's still grasping at the ground, dirt digging under his fingernails, and he hangs on as he lets himself sink into it, thoughts of Liam, around him, under him, over him. Liam, alive and warm and his.

***

Harry's still feeling raw the next morning, and his ankle's swollen and sore, but he's already dressed and showered when Liam knocks on the door. "Ahh, hi," Harry offers, his knuckles white around the doorjamb.

Liam's fingers are twitching around his phone, but he offers Harry a small, careful smile. "Hey. Will you, um-? I know it's early, but, I wanna show you something."

"Yeah, okay," Harry agrees, his own fingers shaking as he shoves his wallet in his pocket and follows Liam out of the hotel. 

They drive to the stadium, even though it's hours before sound check, making sure their knees don't touch in the car. Harry aches for Liam's hands on him, even if it's just the simple, easy, platonic way they had been sharing a bed before Harry lost his mind.

"What are we doing here?" Harry asks, his voice echoing across the empty stadium. There's no one there, not even a janitor or a building worker setting up chairs.

"I want to-" Liam shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. "I know it's the fireworks that bother you."

"It's not-" Harry licks his lips and shifts onto his good ankle. "It's not the fireworks."

"They're the trigger, though," Liam insists.

"Yeah," Harry agrees, because, yeah, they are. "Every time I hear them I'm, ahh, back there."

Liam nods. "When I fell."

"When I didn't catch you."

Liam looks like he wants to argue, maybe scream a bit or throw something big and heavy, but he just says, low and nervous, "I want to- I thought, maybe, if it wasn't during a show, and if I was here-" He takes a step forward, stops within reaching distance. "I asked Paulie to set them off in a few minutes."

Harry's skin feels cold and there's sweat already pooling in his lower back and behind his ears. "I don't want-"

"We need to get through this," Liam says, quietly, stepping another few steps closer. "We're going to get through this."

Harry grasps onto _we_ as the fireworks start, crashing through the sky with a bang and a flash of neon light. Harry flinches, his stomach contracting, and he closes his eyes as hard as he can against the images bombarding his senses.

"Haz, Haz, look at me." Liam's voice is steady and his hand is warm on Harry's elbow. Harry cracks his eyes open, just a little, just enough. Liam grins. "Yeah, yeah, that's it, Harry, keep looking at me."

Harry sees Liam, sees him drowning in blood, sees his eyes, lifeless and dark and he shudders. Liam catches him, wrapping his arms around Harry's back and holding him up.

"I'm here," Liam whispers, pressing kisses to Harry's hair. "I'm here, I'm alive, I'm not going anywhere." He keeps up a steady stream and Harry focuses on it. Liam's voice. His arms, strong and tight. His eyes, bright and warm and so, so alive.

Harry swallows, forcing down the bile, clinging to Liam until the images fade and all that's left is Harry, broken and tired, held up by his guilt and Liam's embrace.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out, lips whispering against Liam's neck. "I'm sorry. I didn't- I didn't catch you. I was there. I was _so_ close, but-"

"Shh." Liam presses his lips to Harry's hair and keeps them there. "You tried, H. That's what matters."

Harry shakes his head, the bile replaced with tears, and Harry can't hold them back this time. "It's not. You could have- I'm so sorry."

Harry's knees give out and Liam lowers them to the stage, right over the spot where Liam lay, all those weeks ago. He holds Harry, his fingers warm and steady on Harry's spine, as he lets Harry's tears wash away all memories of blood.

Harry sobs until he can't anymore – weeks of tears, locked up and hidden away - and stays buried in Liam's chest until long after that. 

Finally, Liam pulls back, just far enough to wipe his thumbs under Harry's eyes. "I don't blame you."

"You should." Harry's voice is scratchy, worn out, and he's glad it's still hours until they have to sing.

Liam shakes his head, a rueful smile on his face. "I couldn't ever." He pulls Harry closer, giving him time to pull away before he kisses him, slowly, gently, piecing Harry back together.

Above them, the fireworks crack and bomb. Harry doesn't ignore them – can't now, maybe can't ever – but he buries himself in Liam, replacing cold images with new memories. 

He knows that healing's still going to take a long time and a lot of work, but, for the first time in ages, he feels like it's possible.


End file.
